On Edge
by we were here
Summary: If you wanted, you could pass as his twin even, but you know you'd never encourage the possibility of that happening. - Companion fic to "Pillar of Salt".


Disclaimer: S.E. Hinton owns _The Outsiders._

Author's Note: _On Edge_ is a short companion ficlet to "Pillar of Salt". Told from Curly's POV, _On Edge_ is about how he goes to Chicago with Angela to attend their father's funeral, which shouldn't be more than (God help me) five chapters at most. I recommend reading "Pillar of Salt" first to get a better understanding of Tim and the plot. Other than that, thanks for reading, and, as always, critique is welcome and appreciated.

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**On Edge**

_"your letters got sadder. your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all lovers betray."_

- Charles Bukowski, An Almost Made Up Poem

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November 1960-

You find his face through sideways glances in dark alleyways, the crooked slope of his nose from underneath bloodied knuckles, the curve of his cheekbones and the slant of his mouth imprinted on the backs of your eyelids, on nights when you can't sleep. If you wanted, you could pass as his twin even, but you know you'd never encourage the possibility of that happening. He's too condescending, too much like the father you don't want to - can't? won't? - remember, but is nothing like him at the same time.

He's pacing the den, back and forth in his stockingfeet, the buzz of the radio on the coffee table the only constant. The nerves coming off him are palpable; he's nervous, on edge, something he rarely is, and that's making you feel guiltier than you already are. This isn't your fault, none of it is, but you can't help but wonder why the fuck he's going to all this trouble, anyway, if he can't do a goddamned thing about it.

Your mother was the one who told you.

She'd sat you down on the sofa, her hands on your knee while you played with the frayed edge of a pillow, and told you, calmly, that something had happened to your father. By then, Tim had already stormed out of the house, and it was only you and her and the silence, so loud you could hear it pounding along to the blood in your ears.

She didn't cry, not once as she said, _he's dead, he shot himself,_ and you realized then that she didn't care why he did it, why there was no note left behind, why she hadn't tried to stop him, why she couldn't grieve.

Against your will, your eyes burned at the corners, and you wiped at them with the back of your hand, not trusting yourself to say anything because your voice would crack, you would break down and she would have to put you back together, and you couldn't let that happen to either of you. So you got up and left her for the darkness of the night, vomit in the back of your mouth and something worse than adrenaline in your veins, leaving the same way Tim had: through the slamming of a door.

You'd found him by chance, got a few cigarettes into his system and a few words out, and was able to coax him back into the house. A day later, he's standing in the center of the living room, once again eyeing the small suitcase at your feet.

"So you're leaving," he says, and you register that these are the first words he's spoken in twenty=four hours. He won't look at you, and you know that he's suffocating, too, can feel it in your bones, at the bottom of your soul. You're both dying; he on the inside and you on the outside, and the pain is burning you alive.

You decided the moment Ang asked you to go with her, and are glad she's not here but outside, waiting for you in the car because she doesn't need to see this. Nothing he says can change your decision; will make you stay.

"She needs me." Somehow, you found your voice and hate the way this comment makes his face twist. It's an ugly look, and your fingers - balled into fists at your sides - itch to claw it off.

"If she needed you so goddamn much, Curly, you really think she'd fuckin' _say so_?"

There it is again, the flame that ignited the fire.

He's beyond pissed at you and her and the dead husband your mother would never properly learn to grieve for because he's afraid. Absolutely terrified of having to face his past, the one he let slip between his grasp, and the future, whatever it holds.

"Fuck you," you spit, ashamed for letting him make you feel so weak, so small. "You're fuckin' crazy, Tim."

He laughs at this, a bitter noise, and you want to punch him, hit him, kick him, slap him - anything to make him understand that this is one of the moments he'll regret for the rest of his life, not going to his own father's funeral.

There is not enough air to breathe in the room, and you ache for the outside, for your heart to stop trying to force its way out of your chest. You won't see him for three days, and this should be calming you down, but it isn't, the realization of this is just making you feel more panicked.

"I gotta go," you cough out, not meeting his gaze. You're seeing red, and it takes you a couple tries to open the door, suitcase nearly slipping from your sweaty palms. Either that or your hands are shaking so bad because you've never felt so angry.

Angela, seeing you by the car, opens the driver's side door for you as you approach and toss your suitcase into the backseat. She looks tired: her hair's sloppily pulled back from her face, making the bags under her eyes more bruise-like, skin paler.

You slide in, the air thick and cold and the sky dark for it being so early in the morning, only nine, and pop out the lighter. It's your second cigarette today and her fourth – you don't know who started counting first, and why it matters, but now, it seems, everything does.

You take a puff of the Marlboro to get the acidic taste out of your mouth and twist the key in the ignition, the engine starting up with a roar. Eleven hours, roughly several hundred miles, and all you can think, as the house gets smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror, is that you could go back, give Angela the money for a bus ticket, pretend like you never made a promise you couldn't keep.

The rational part of your brain is telling you that Tim's right, but you push the thought aside for later, when it's dark and you're alone and there are only highways separating you from where you are to where you need to be.


End file.
